


Pistolet Ménage à Trois

by Jimlockian



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Gunplay, M/M, NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:17:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jimlockian/pseuds/Jimlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim wants Sherlock to get to know his gun collection.. Sherlock is intrigued. Erotic gunplay ensues.</p><p>He was on his feet and heading for the door until Jim stopped him with the words - “Sherlock, I want you to have her.” When the consulting detective turns with an appraising stare Jim continues with a raised brow and an attractive lilt of that Irish accent, “Consider this an invitation to a ménage à trois, my dear.”<br/>Warning: Graphic descriptions of intercourse, aka NSFW content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pistolet Ménage à Trois

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Graphic descriptions of intercourse, aka NSFW content. EXPLICIT NSFW! 
> 
> Dedicated to the lovely Hikka-chan! I roleplay a Moriarty-based character with her, and he has a gun fetish so I thought of her while writing this. =) Thank you for letting my demons play with yours!
> 
> Credit to Doyle, Moffat, & Gatiss, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!

Sherlock is a calculating individual that uses his cerebral cortex to a far fuller extent than most of his peers. Thus when he makes a decision factors going into it are numerous and far reaching. Sherlock Holmes thinks about concepts in a manner few understand, let alone mimic. There is no analogous mind that he has found.

Save for one peculiar individual. A murderous madman with a penchant for games as convoluted as fully comprehending the most complex allotrope of plutonium, and its fission properties (which Sherlock does).  
  
Thus it is not shocking that Sherlock had a low resistivity to Jim Moriarty's advances, and yields quite swiftly to him. Their romantic entanglements have always been rather off the cuff, but at their last encounter Jim said something not quite bewildering, but it did make Sherlock think...

_Jim had begun with the words, “Take my gun home.”_

_“I'm suitably protected.” Sherlock replied in a clipped manner, assuming it was some strange protective gesture and refusing it. He was on his feet and heading for the door until Jim stopped him with the words - “Sherlock, I want you to have her.” When the consulting detective turns with an appraising stare Jim continues with a raised brow and an attractive lilt of that Irish accent, “Consider this an invitation to a ménage à trois, my dear.”_  
  
 _The criminal holds out a pistol, grip on the barrel so that he is offering it to Sherlock by the handle. “Get to know Victoria first.”_  
  
 _The pale skinned genius looked down at the weapon, feeling beguiled yet intrigued even still. His pale pink lips parted slightly, “Bored already, Jim?”_  
  
 _“You know that wouldn't be so.” Words laced with an overdone attempt at affection that just pushes him toward sounding fake. “But,” There was the skulking underbelly of a tone that held sinister threats and made Sherlock's skin crawl. “There's always room for improvement, Sherlock.” Jim flouts his words in his sweet Irish trill, lips parting into a snickering smile as he nods once. “Ruminate on that.” The gun is forcefully shoved against his elegant palm and Sherlock's fingers closed around it._

* * *

 

People were always ordinary. For all of his life every person Jim had meet seemed like a cookie-cutter copy of the last. Then came Sherlock Holmes. The boffin detective turned out not to only be his enemy, but Sherlock is the only mental prowess capable of going head to head with him. What was not to find arousing about that?  
  
Not only is his mind exquisite but his body his singularly gorgeous. Sherlock Holmes is also undoubtedly the most attractive creature Jim Moriarty has ever met. So when the consulting detective walks into Jim's flat his consulting criminal gladly steps up to him for a greeting.

Moriarty lifts his hand up against one chiseled cheekbone, tracing it up to the soft inward curve. He is leaning in for a lip-lock when something dense presses into his forearm. Sherlock is trying to return the gun, which Jim takes as permission enough. He had known whipping the weapon out would not have worked on his recently deflowered virgin, but putting a seed in Sherlock's fertile mind and letting it grow would; Letting Sherlock caress the weapon, examine its every inch, and play out scenarios in his mind, would be the most opportune use of efforts to get what he wants.  
  
Per usual, Jim is right and Sherlock plays into his hand as they both like.

Already feeling semi-erect, Jim runs his palm along the rigid barrel of his currently favored semi-automatic, the one Sherlock had been given. Victoria is a gorgeous Beretta 9mm with chrome finish, well polished and dutifully cleaned. The barrel is beautifully sleek, like a mirror, and the grip has a leather exterior. The curvature of the trigger handle thick and elegant to Jim's eyes.

“I would not have expected you to have a gun fetish.” Sherlock's critical voice just above him breaks the reunion.“You said you don't like getting your hands dirty – aren't guns a little squalid by your measure?”

Jim's brows remain fixed, but his eyes take on a nefarious sheen. His lips quirk upward, just enough for Sherlock to notice. Slight lines crackle his pretty face, especially around the light patches of facial hair, while his elegantly high forehead remains flawless. “Everyone likes to get a little dirty now and then. Besides, guns are accountable.” With that said, Jim leans in and captures Sherlock's lips in a fiery kiss. Despite rarely being the finger on the end of the criminal trigger, Jim adores his guns – they cannot let him down as people do, simple point and shoot. Sleek, lethal, very attractive. His hand clasping the gun's hilt lazily threw itself over Sherlock's shoulder, the weapon a light pressure on his back.

They began a rough throttling of each other, Jim using more of his teeth than his counterpart. The only sound their panting, except for a soft sliding click sound. Sherlock grips the back of Jim's head in an effort to still him, but the wily creature's tongue does not seem capable of stopping. At least until both men run out of breath and pull away from each other. Sherlock's usually pale lips now flushed to a dusky pink.

Jim Moriarty took his hands off Sherlock and then takes a step back. He levels the sight on Sherlock's chest with a wicked grin. “Strip.”

While Sherlock Holmes obeys Jim fingers the flat edges of the gun with his thumb. Of course, the removal is not tediously slow as the detective is being efficient over sensual. By now Sherlock seems casually indifferent to exposing himself to Jim. The man is curious, the word why is implied in his voice, “Victoria?”

“Well I did have a matching Regina but she took a nasty spill into the Thames.” Jim murmurs gently. He has owned hundreds of weapons in his time, yet never lost that alluring feeling with them. They are cared for and named like pets, though just like any pet they cannot outlive their owner.

Sherlock is down to boxers when Jim stops him, wanting that honor for himself. He gives a calculated nod to make the detective approach and no further instruction is needed for Sherlock to begin the same ministrations on Jim's expensive suit. As he does the slighter man presses the open end of the barrel into his temple, sending a shiver of sensation into him from the metal's coldness.

“Not nervous, are you Sherlock?” Says Jim once he is out of his Westwood. The man is a flat linear figure, yet he pleases the detective with that taut sun-kissed flesh. All that is left on him is a pair of Armani boxers.

“Don't be ridiculous.” Sherlock mutters under his breath calmly in that soft masculine voice dripped with arousal. For a moment his air turns snide with self-assurance and he caresses Jim's hard length through the lustrous fabric, “You wouldn't kill me.”  
  
“Why not?” Jim leers over him, sneering. Every bit as dangerous yet playful as the night at the pool. He tilts the gun on a right angle, leaving it flat against Sherlock's cheekbone, so statuesque and pale it seems carved by a master sculptor. The sleek barrel reflects that perfect skin in a blurred parallel.

“You haven't ejaculated yet.” When that hot-cold low silken voice purrs that out Jim's body feelslike it is stiffening slightly, save for one part that hardens to diamond standards.

“You know what you do to me when you talk like a scientist.” Jim growls out gleefully when the detective will not use smutty terminology.

He grips onto those slightly curling nightshade strands from behind, yanking them back, making the consulting detective wince. Inhaling sharply, the criminal holds his hand closed like a bear trap. “Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock..” Tuts Jim, trailing the gun's tip against the pulse in Sherlock's throat, the beat of his raw life. “My Sherlock Holmes.”

Any reply would only give more indication of the pain he was in, so Sherlock is silent for a moment to gather his wits along with his physicality. Before he could, however, the gun was moving down to his bare chest, shooting end sliding under the waistband of his boxers. Jim then let go of his hair, giving Sherlock a bored stare, “On your back.” When Sherlock glares obstinately, Jim waves the gun in the bed's direction.

Though Jim's unruly detective had rolled his eyes first he still complies, sending enough appreciation into Jim that he removes Sherlock's boxers quickly and sends them sailing over his shoulder. Already weeping and wanting, Jim presses the open hole of his gun against the tip of Sherlock's member, wetting it with the man's sticky precum. Sherlock's hips give a slight quiver and his breath hitches in that perfect throat.

The metal is bitterly cool against Sherlock's sensitive hot flesh, yet that only makes the shivers run deeper. It is a strange mix of painful pleasure that Sherlock had not thought he would have felt until it took over his body. Every sharp angle, every smooth indentation of the gun's make, comes across his skin until he can picture it in his mind. So when Jim removes his weapon, Sherlock's eyes narrow up at him.

“Prep yourself.” Jim mutters to Sherlock like he is some common whore, throwing him lubricant while pressing Victoria into the raven-headed man's shinbone.

Sherlock flushes a slight pink at that order, another first for their rather dubious relationship that feels much more like a subjective affiliation than a romantic relationship. His lithe limbs part, the pale expanse of his thighs on display for Moriarty's looming figure. His shaft bobs a little with his movements and Jim's eyes greedily follow it.

Fingers as luxuriantly befitting Sherlock as a violin bow compliments its instrument began to glisten with the wafting vanilla-scented contents of the small tube. Jim stares as if transfixed, letting the tightening behind his stomach pool with the already present tumult of heat. First one finger slides into the detective's puckered entrance, lightly pushing his way deeper until he adds a second. Sweat lightly forms along his forehead, sliding into creasing lines formed as he concentrates on stretching those two digits apart.

Suddenly the gun's tip is pressing into his knuckles, forcing his index and middle finger to stay buried within. “Just stretch yourself.” Jim growls commandingly. Sherlock obeys him without a fight for once, giving in and spreading his fingers apart over and over again. His hips rock with desire, flesh untouched and wanting more stimulation but all Jim would do was keep the gun pressed to bury those fingers.

Panting softly, with a proud erection, and Jim's gun at his hole, just made the consulting criminal want to take a photograph. He took a step away from Sherlock, grabbing his pants and rifling through the garment to pull his cell phone out. Jim walked back over and repositioned Victoria with one hand while snapping a photo with the other. He smirked at the man below him, enough games.

Jim slips his tented boxers off, giving a soft hitched sigh as the fabric slid across him. The sensitive shaft not as large as Sherlock's. Though, Sherlock hardly notices the difference in size once Jim is drives into him. The criminal always swift with his penetrating, the shaft driving inside him as hard and unyielding as the man himself.

Sherlock lies with his back upon the bed, breathing harshly, as Jim stands with an arm supporting one of Sherlock's limber legs around him, and the other running the gun up those perfect wishbone hips. Victoria's silvery glimmer marred by cum and sweat yet seeming all the more beautiful in his eyes because of it.

“Move, Jim.” Orders Sherlock impatiently. Voice already so deep it is arousing normally without being that erotic twinge while the detective was erect, now it is positively lascivious with Sherlock touting a hard shaft of his own and one in him to the hilt.

The butt of the gun's grip smacked harshly into the detective's fleshy bottom, making him jerk unpleasantly for him and rather in an erotic jolt for Jim. “When I'm damn ready.” Jim mutters in return. Yet that turned out to be a few seconds later – just long enough to make his point and send the detective to huff irritably. Then Sherlock could do nothing more than harsh panting to keep his breath.

Jim hits inside him with relentless force, dangerously rough but the bittersweet stretching is the most erotic passion between them. The criminal's manic thrusts are careless with Sherlock's body, even though he is working for the detective's pleasure as much as his own. Jim felt his lover's marginally sculpted stomach muscles undulating from the pleasure wrenching forces within him.

The slap of the front of Jim's legs against the back of Sherlock's thighs couples with the slight shaking of the bed frame. Neither cares much for any sense other than tactile as they both speed up their thrusts. Yet there is one visual Jim wants and he quickly shoves his weapon between Sherlock's cupid's bow. “Suck it.” He hisses.

The detective tries to spit it out, pushing with his tongue, and in punishment Jim slows his hips. Sherlock immediately decides to accept what he deems an invitation, lips wrapping around and yielding to the muzzle. His tongue slid between the slit meant for a bullet first, before sucking on it and puckering his already hollow cheeks. The image turns gloriously lurid when those plump pink muscles parted to let his long moist tongue lap up over the sight and against the barrel.

Jim pulls Victoria away and slaps the gun sideways against Sherlock's rear end again. He drives his pulsating shaft into the detective's fleshy buttocks, penetrating into the clamping heat with constant speed until he can take no more. Jim's balls tighten against his body, the obscene feeling of them hitting Sherlock's hole making the detective writhe. With Jim's tip giving one last push against his prostate Sherlock's toes curl. He shoots his pearly strands with a tremble wrecking his body.

“That was... good.” Sherlock finishes once his panting has stopped, back still arched.

“She was loaded.” Jim says in breathless response, smirking unabashedly.


End file.
